


Laundry

by organizedrebel



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: And for tomatoes, Comfort, F/M, Honestly I was craving touch and company when i started this, How Do I Tag, I promise that rating is PURELY for swearing, Laundry, Like, Slice of Life, because that was a genuine consideration for a title for this, dinner and a movie, god I HATE tomatoes, is there a euphemism for loving someone, me apparently that's who, oh god is it that obvious, who names a fic LAUNDRY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/organizedrebel/pseuds/organizedrebel
Summary: You're not quite sure how, but Bucky always manages to find a way into your apartment when he needs comfort, food, and no judgment. You happen to be able to provide all three on a regular basis, it's a tradition now, and honestly you're pretty happy with this arrangement.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 133





	Laundry

He’d never said how, and you’d never asked. 

Sometimes Bucky found his way into your apartment, no matter if you locked your windows, deadbolted your door, and made sure the screws on the air vent were extra tight. Every time, everything in your apartment was exactly where it was supposed to be, and eventually you just accepted it. It had become something of a game, even. You kept your safe lifestyle, locking every window and door, and he always found a way past it. 

You were okay with that, because Bucky was the  _ only _ person you trusted in this kind of situation. 

And besides, the majority of the time he weaseled his way into your apartment, he just wanted company or physical comfort. Normally it entailed cuddling (in whichever orientation, be it on your sides or just laying between his legs with your head on his stomach) and often a home-cooked meal. 

Sometimes you cooked. Sometimes he cooked. Usually you both cooked and somehow managed to dance around each other enough in your tiny kitchen to not knock things over. 

Tonight was one of those evenings, and you were in your bedroom folding your laundry. Your front door was locked and bolted, as it always was when you were home. You’d just lifted your arms to fold a towel into thirds when two thick arms slid around your waist, a chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You didn’t even jump anymore, and hummed in acknowledgment, folding the towel the rest of the way before pressing a kiss to the stubbly cheek you could reach. 

“One of those days?” you murmured, picking up a t-shirt from the pile and folding it as well. Bucky had you in a loose enough grip that you could pull away if you wanted to (you didn’t) but could still reach the pile of clean laundry you had to go through. 

A grunt was your answer, and you hummed again in response. He’d never been talkative, and that was okay. You were okay with a quiet companion. It was why you’d sometimes considered getting a cat. Bucky counted as a cat some days, though. 

“Dinner and a movie?” you ventured, reaching for a sock next and sorting through the pile until you found the other in the pair. 

Another grunt. That was a yes. 

“Alright, give me just a few minutes to finish folding these before they wrinkle, then we can get started. It’s… what, quarter to seven? It’s about dinnertime.” 

He hummed this time, and you had a moment to realize that maybe the sounds you made when you didn’t feel like talking had been picked up from Bucky’s habit of grunting. 

“Have any preferences on what we should eat? I can see if we have it in the fridge and cabinet,” you offered absently, laying a shirt aside to go on a hanger. That one would be better if it wasn’t folded and developed creases. T-shirts, on the other hand, were almost  _ expected _ to have those. 

“No.” 

“Okay, then I’ll see what I can whip up, and you’ll eat it and like it,” you responded with a touch of humor, shifting your head to press your cheek up against his while your pile of laundry slowly shrunk. “Just watch. It will probably turn out to be lizard brains and hemlock.” 

“Not lizard brains.”

“No?” you asked in amusement. 

“Too small.” 

“Well, you don’t know what kind of lizards I’m talking about. If it was… an anole, or a skink, then yeah, you’d be right. Too much effort, not enough reward,” you reasoned with a one-shouldered shrug. “Kinda like oysters or mussels. But I could be talking about monitor lizards. In which case, their brains would still be pretty small, but it’s such an obscure ingredient I’m bound to have it. You know me and my witchy tendencies, after all.” 

“I do,” he agreed in a rumble. “You’re a terrible witch. Awful. Worst kind.” 

You smiled at the fact you’d finally prompted speech out of him. You didn’t mind when Bucky was quiet, not in the slightest, but he was witty, and you enjoyed hearing him speak. Well. And  _ feeling _ him speak. His voice was deep enough that it rolled through your chest as well when he held you like this, and made you smile no matter what you were doing. 

Like folding laundry. 

Sometimes you thought that Bucky came to you because you loved him unconditionally, and he knew it. Anything he left here, by accident or on purpose, you washed. If he just wanted silence, you were quiet for him. If he wanted to talk, or just to hear someone talking, you listened. You didn’t let him walk all over you, nor did he try to-- but you tried to pay genuine attention to Bucky and what he needed, expending more effort for him than you would with most other people. And Bucky was observant enough to see that. Whether he came stumbling in immediately following a mission (you never asked what they were about, and he never offered to tell you), covered in blood, dirt, and the smell of gunpowder, or whether it was just in from a walk around the city, he was always welcome. And he could see that, too. Your emotional walls… weren’t impenetrable, but he was one of the people you’d allowed in far enough to see you for you. And if Bucky wanted to know any facet of you, what you thought, what your past was... if he asked, you would tell him. He knew that, as well.

And so he knew you loved him. Deeply, unconditionally, and without reserve. 

You didn’t think you were  _ in _ love with him, and had decided long ago that it would make things more complicated if you  _ were _ . And things were good, the way they were now. Bucky was considerate, brought you things you needed sometimes before you knew you needed them, cleaned up after himself, and didn’t push when you were having a bad night. And so you knew he loved you, as well. You were more than content with that. 

Relationships were difficult for you. When you had to put a name to a given relationship, that included unspoken parameters that were difficult to fulfill. If whatever you and Bucky  _ had _ didn’t have a name, then there were no expectations to live up to, and the two of you could keep doing what you were doing for as long as the two of you were happy with it. 

And it was times like these that you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Bucky was happy around you. He didn’t always smile, didn’t always show it, but in his own way he made sure you knew. Physical touch was one way. He didn’t talk much, possessing a quiet disposition in the time you’d known him, so he made up for it. 

A questioning rumble of a hum pulled you out of your thoughts, and you realized you’d been standing still with a pair of underwear in your hands for almost a solid minute. You huffed at yourself, folding them and setting them aside to reach for the next article of clothing.

“Just thinking,” you answered to Bucky’s wordless question. 

“About?” 

“You,” you said truthfully. Without being prompted, you explained further. “I enjoy when you stop by like this. Don’t always enjoy the surprise of being randomly grabbed,” you added dryly, “But I appreciate that I’m one of the people you trust.” 

That was another thing you tried to vocalize for him-- that you appreciated him and his actions. You noticed small actions he took (like shifting slightly when you stood so you could support yourself on him if needed, or actually shedding his boots by the door instead of wearing them in), and you let him know you noticed. Bucky may have tried to fly under the radar outside of your apartment, and specifically tried to avoid being noticed, but  _ in _ your apartment? You thought that maybe he might  _ want _ to be noticed, if it was by you. 

You’d sound completely conceited if you were wrong, but it was what you thought. 

“There, all done. Now let’s go see what I can concoct for dinner for us, or if we’d be better off ordering delivery,” you teased, reaching down to curl your fingers gently around Bucky’s hands. One was a great deal colder than the other, but you didn’t comment on it. It wasn’t that you’d ever  _ ignored _ his metal arm-- other than a few questions like, ‘can you feel with it,’ or ‘what’s it made of,’ you didn’t bring it up. 

You didn’t think it was a sensitive subject, but he probably got questions like those a lot, and he likely was tired of hearing them. So you figured that you were the last person he needed to hear them from. As a personal rule, your curiosity was never more important than someone else’s comfort, and that applied to Bucky almost more than anyone else. 

Making dinner was often a quiet affair. Sometimes you played music from your phone while the two of you cooked, when you were both in the mood for it. It had gotten to the point that you’d indicate your phone to Bucky with raised eyebrows, and whatever expression he wore would settle the matter. The decision was made based on his comfort. 

The two of you worked next to each other in tandem, him lifting the lid off the pot right as you finished chopping an ingredient. Similarly, if there was an ingredient on his other side that you needed, you’d bump his shoulder and by the time you’d scraped what was left on the cutting board to the side, said ingredient was in front of you. 

Tonight was another matter. You  _ detested _ small talk, and what the two of you chatted about tonight didn’t count, because it  _ meant _ something. It seemed to have turned into a ‘fair trade’ kind of conversation-- you would ask him a question, he would answer it, and then he would ask you a question, which you would answer. 

You got the feeling that no question was off-limits, but you also weren’t sure how much you wanted to push your luck. If you asked something sensitive and Bucky stiffened, as had happened twice before, you’d change the subject-- but before, it had taken a few minutes for him to come back out of his shell again. Certainly no question was off-limits for him to ask you. He could ask something mundane, or he could ask where you’d traveled before. He could ask who your first love was, or what your dreams used to be and turned into. Hell, he could ask you which of your… ‘adult novelty toys’ was your favorite, and you’d give him a truthful answer to that, too. You would answer any question he asked you, because it tied into that unconditional love and trust thing. 

Of course, you hoped he felt the same way, but weren’t sure if you were brave enough to venture to ask. Besides, in some way or another, you knew he loved you, and that was enough.

“What was your first pet?” 

You hummed in thought, cutting the tomato on the cutting board into neat slices. “... Official, parent-approved pet?” 

Bucky thought for a second, then replied, “No. First thing you considered a pet.” 

“Tough to say. We had a small pond in our backyard, you see, it was fed by a creek that went along the edge of our property, and every spring these noisy frogs would come and lay eggs in it. Spring peepers, I think my mother called them. The mosquitoes were hell, but that’s another story,” you said. “So one year, I think I might’ve been five or six? One year I took a fishbowl and scooped some of the eggs out of the pond. See, on the nature channel I had seen all of these terrible predators that would eat tadpoles and frogs, and I thought I was saving them.” You paused. “Turns out, those particular frog eggs needed water that was at least circulating a  _ little. _ So uh. They never hatched. I cried to Mom about it for an hour when I learned that.”

Bucky hummed, but you spotted the small smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. 

“Hey, it’s not that funny-- I was a kid, I was devastated!” 

“You’re right, it’s  _ not _ funny,” he deadpanned, but the sparkle in his eyes told another story, and you stuck your tongue out at him. 

Without hesitation he lifted a hand to tap your tongue with the end of a finger, causing you to immediately call for a tactical retreat-- an instant before responding with a sneak attack where you abruptly licked a stripe up his finger in retaliation. 

His low hum was the only warning you got before Bucky leaned in, poking your nose with the tip of his tongue. You squeaked in indignation, knocking your shoulder into his. 

“This calls for  _ war, _ Mister Barnes!” you declared, flicking your tomato-juice-covered fingers at him. With your aim, most of it landed on his chin. 

“War, huh? Good thing we’re taking prisoners.” 

Before you could respond (and since the knife that had been in your hand was sitting on the cutting board) Bucky abandoned his post at the stove to wrap both arms around your waist and swing you around, accompanied by a delighted sound from you that wasn’t quite loud enough to be a shriek. He ended up with you clinging to his black t-shirt, with what was left of the tomato unfortunately crushed as well when you’d seized his shirt front as a reaction. You couldn’t be mad at him though-- it was fun. 

“Oh-- shit, sorry!” you gasped when you realized you’d crushed the poor tomato into his shirt. “Hey, I washed the one you left here last time, why don’t you go change and I’ll finish up dinner?” 

“Doesn’t bother me,” he responded in amusement, and you playfully scowled at him. 

“Well, it will bother  _ me _ if we go to eat and you’re dripping tomato bits everywhere, and since I’m assuming you don’t want to be shirtless, I’m offering a solution.” 

“You said it, not me.” 

“God, are you hanging around someone  _ else  _ who heard comebacks from the nineties? Get a clean shirt, go on.” You waved him away, giving the pot on the stove a quick stir. “I’ll get this finished in a few minutes, go get a clean shirt and pick out a movie for us. Remember how to work the streaming service?” 

“Remember enough.” 

You smiled over your shoulder. He’d mentioned having trouble remembering things before, and it made you happy that he… well, whether he was improving or not, he made a visible effort for you. “Well, shoo. Food will be ready in five minutes or so.” 

He hummed an acknowledgment as he retreated into your bedroom in search of a clean shirt. You’d run a small load of laundry tomorrow, and wash the shirt he wore over here then. After all, he probably wouldn’t be back for a couple of days after this, you had time. 

You slid two empty plates onto your arm, turning the stove off and using a big serving spoon to dish out dinner for the two of you. The bottom of the plates had your arm feeling a little too warm for comfort, but it wasn’t too bad, and by the time you’d gotten forks and moved to your coffee table Bucky was swiping through your phone to pick out a movie. You had a few DVDs here, but you’d both watched them many times. And if Bucky wanted something you hadn’t seen a dozen times, you certainly weren’t going to be the one to tell him no. 

The movie he selected was something you both had seen before though, some fantasy horror flick that didn’t make you think too hard, and you thought maybe that was what he needed tonight, and you quietly resolved to nudge him and make quiet comments throughout the movie. If he wanted proper quiet with you, he’d have picked something new to pay attention to.

Handing him his plate with a quiet hum to get his attention, Bucky responded with a similarly-toned hum in thanks. Some things just didn’t need words to get the point across between the two of you. 

Somewhere along the line with Bucky, it had become a habit to poke fun at the characters in a film, and you’d often make sarcastic comments about the characters and their choices, sometimes mocking them from the point of view of another character. Tonight Bucky joined in, much to your delight, and he kept you in stitches for a good couple of minutes over his deadpan mockery. Yes, it was a  _ great _ idea to split up here, and of  _ course _ it was a coincidence that three of the five characters present saw something they were uncertain about. Oh, and let’s not worry about tracking down the antagonist who most likely kidnapped the last member of their group, who they needed to locate in order to get back home, let’s finish this  _ particular _ subplot first. It’s clearly much more important that these two minor characters hook up, rather than getting out of the horrible dungeon first. 

Sometimes you wished you had the skill Bucky had at witty one-liners when he felt like talking. Then you realized it would kill some of the magic between you if you did, and you were once again satisfied with where you were with him. 

The movie ended with most of the original cast dead, and not something you could quite describe as a happy ending, but you and Bucky found it funny regardless. Your dinner dishes had been stacked on the coffee table a while ago, somewhere around the halfway point in the film, and you were nestled quite comfortably under the curve of his right arm. As the credits rolled, you absently pressed a kiss to his shoulder before patting his leg. “Should probably take care of the dishes.” 

Bucky hummed in agreement but made no move to get up, which meant it was up to you tonight. Besides, he was busy more often than not, he deserved a chance to sit and relax once in a while. Except that as soon as you went to rise, that same arm hooked around your waist and pulled you back into his lap, where you fell with a quiet ‘oof.’ 

You turned your head with a playfully suspicious stare. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Mister Barnes?” 

His eyes met yours, a lively glitter to them. That look meant only one thing. 

“Oh, you are  _ trouble, _ ” you muttered, bracing a hand on the couch and pushing yourself back to your feet. You never made it that far. 

Both of Bucky’s (frankly quite muscular) arms latched around you, tugging you back onto the couch with him, making you yelp. But that wasn’t the end of it, because of course it wasn’t. Immediately, Bucky moved around you so you were pinned, beginning to tickle your sides mercilessly. 

“No!!-- shit stop stop stop--  _ I trusted you-- _ oh my  _ god _ you-- you  _ usurper!! _ \--” You gasped and shrieked, all but thrashing in a futile attempt to separate his dancing fingers from your far-too-ticklish ribcage. “Don’t--  _ oh my god STOP _ \-- if--  _ agh _ \-- if-if you don’t stop, I--  _ shit stop it _ \-- won’t tELL YOU  _ I SAID STOP THAT _ \--” 

“Won’t tell me what?” Bucky asked wickedly, thrice-damned fingers of his travelling up and down your sides and utterly  _ sabotaging _ your attempts to sabotage  _ him. _

_ “WHERE DESSERT IS.” _

Mercifully, he stopped for a moment, leaving you scrambling to catch his wrists and gasping for breath. Honestly, you didn’t even know if that would work, this was a new development. But panicking in the heat of the moment, you couldn’t think of anything else to bribe him with, or blackmail him with-- actually, you weren’t sure you even  _ had _ any dirt on Bucky, not that you would use it if you  _ did _ \-- and this was the only thing to come to mind. 

“... Dessert?” he repeated in a low voice, tilting his head slightly. He almost seemed  _ innocent. _

But you knew better. You recognized that diabolical gleam in his eyes for what it was, and you warily pulled your knees closer to your chest during the lull in tickle torture. For all your efforts though, you still couldn’t stop the delighted grin pulling at the corners of your mouth. And apparently, neither could Bucky. 

“Yeah. It’s not refrigerated, so it’s not in the fridge. Could be anywhere, and you don’t know where it is,” you said bravely. “If it doesn’t need refrigerated? I might have hidden it anywhere. Under a floorboard. In the wall, and then plastered over it. Or--” 

“Or in the shopping bags still in the kitchen?” 

God, his poker face was good. Bucky’s eyes were completely free of guile, and you shot him a peeved stare. 

“No, it’s not,” you retorted. Shame he could always smell even the  _ idea _ of a lie around you, and really you ought to know better by now. Then again, you weren’t really  _ trying _ to lie to him. 

He clicked his tongue at you a couple of times, making a show of getting up and sauntering to the kitchen counter and starting to reach for the shopping bag. No pretense about it now, you straight-up glared at him from your spot on the couch. “Come on, doll, you know you can’t lie to me.” 

_ Damn. _

“Well maybe I was trying to surprise you with it,” you sniffed, crossing your arms. It was all acting, you knew he knew. 

“It’s the thought that counts,” he hummed, proceeding to paw through the contents of the bag. There wasn’t much, just some nonperishables you hadn’t gotten to putting away yet and a small tin of macarons you’d picked up from the bakery in town. You’d purchased a small variety of flavors, obviously to share next time Bucky was over (often he was over twice a week so it wouldn’t have been a long wait), and he popped the tin open with a thumb as you watched. 

“You know, you  _ could _ have just asked,” you grumbled, pushing yourself to your feet so you could pluck your favorite flavor out of the tin before Bucky got the idea to just tip the open tin into his mouth and give it a little shake. It wasn’t that you thought he  _ would, _ but you had no doubt that the idea would occur to him if you didn’t intervene. 

He might do it anyway, if he knew you’d come to this conclusion, so it was vital that you got at least one macaron from the tin before Bucky dug in. 

Your venture met with success, and you nibbled on the delicate cookie you nabbed, humming in delight at the sweetness that flooded your tongue. Glancing up at Bucky, you saw that he was wearing a similar expression of delight, though his was much subtler and almost exclusively showed through his eyes, the way his eyelids drooped and the outside corners of his eyes relaxed. Something you’d noticed about Bucky was that he was wound too tight, all tension and strain. It showed in the set of his shoulders, the muscle of his jaw, and his eyes and eyebrows. 

Right now, you felt proud that you’d been the catalyst for banishing most of that tension. Bucky deserved a chance to relax, and he trusted that he could do that with you. Even given the option, you wouldn’t trade that for anything. 

To you, nobody deserved a chance to settle and be himself more than Bucky did. 

“This was a good idea.” 

You leaned your shoulder against his chest with a happy hum, and he shifted his arms around you with a similarly-toned hum in response, the tin in one hand and the macaron he was eating in the other, and once he was done chewing he dropped a kiss on the top of your head. 

“You want to stay the night?” you asked, pulling your head back just enough to look him in the eye. 

He made a quiet sound, just a small sound of acknowledgment so you knew he’d heard you and would give him time to think. You always gave him time to consider something, of course, but you suspected it was so strongly ingrained that he might  _ never _ stop doing that. Either way, you waited patiently, not pressing for an answer. 

“... I do,” he responded at last, and you offered him a soft smile, plucking another macaron from the tin and holding up to his lips. Ever-so-carefully, he closed his teeth on the dainty dessert and pulled it from your fingers, eyes sparkling. 

“Then I’ll dig out a pair of pajama pants for you-- unless you’d rather sleep in your boxers?” you questioned. 

Bucky hummed, giving it a moment of thought before stating, “Boxers.” 

“You got it,” you said teasingly, stretching up just a little to press a kiss to his cheek before sliding out of his arms to pick up your dishes from dinner. There was no way in hell you were going to leave food or remnants of anything edible out overnight, that was just begging for some kind of infestation. “If you want to either finish those or stick the lid back on, you can go get ready for bed and I’ll come join you in a few.” 

Bucky was shaking his head before you’d even finished, and took the dishes from your hands, taking advantage of startling you by how close he was when you turned around. He always moved  _ silently _ unless he wanted you to know he was there. (And he played  _ dirty _ , but you wouldn’t crucify him for that.) “I’ll help,” he corrected quietly. “I made part of this mess, too.” 

Sometimes you were struck by how useful Bucky tried to make himself when he was with you; this was one of those times. Smiling, you lifted a hand to his cheek, running your thumb over the almost-beard he had going. 

“I know I shouldn’t be surprised by that, but I am,” you mused, patting his arm on the way by him so you could start loading the dishwasher ahead of him. 

“Why are you surprised?” 

You hummed thoughtfully, thinking over your answer before delivering it to him. You gave him effort you didn’t offer many other people in your life, and the less confusing you could make your answers for Bucky, the better. “... Because… Hm. Sometimes… sometimes I forget that humans are kind of decent, because a lot of the time they don’t act like it,” you began slowly, “So I spend all day around other people, who aren’t as considerate as you are, and I adjust to them being the norm. So when you come over here, I’m reminded that you’re more decent than most people I know, because you’re  _ not _ the norm, you’re better. Does that make any sense?” 

For a long minute, the only sounds in the kitchen were of dishes being rinsed off and clinking when they were put in the dishwasher. Again, you weren’t worried. Bucky considered his answers. And sometimes you missed the sound of a person you were talking with considering their words. 

“... I think so,” he finally responded, handing you an empty glass. 

“Good. I’d hate to not make any sense.”

“ _ That _ you do on a regular basis.” 

“Rude,” you grumbled, adding detergent before closing the dishwasher and pressing ‘start.’ “Well, you don’t  _ smell _ awful so I  _ suppose _ I can allow you into the bedroom without a shower.” 

“How gracious of you.” 

“Don’t test me, Barnes. I’ve no hesitation about turning the hose on you while you’re sleeping if you go too long without a bath.” You were absolutely joking, and were comfortable in the knowledge he was  _ well _ aware of this. Since the kitchen was cleaned up, you headed down the short hallway to the bedroom, shedding your shirt as you went. Tonight was all about fuzzy pajamas.

“Oh, spare me that,” he hummed, and you could hear the smile in his voice behind you. 

“I’m a cruel taskmaster, not prone to mercy,” you announced in a dramatic voice. It was somewhat muffled as you pulled a clean shirt over your head, and you somehow managed to get your head stuck in a sleeve. Luckily for you, Bucky helped you right that mistake, giving the bottom hem of your shirt a light tug to straighten it once your head was through the correct hole in the fabric. 

“What  _ ever _ would you do without me?” he teased gently, cupping your face in one hand for a moment. You loved little moments like this, where it was partly teasing and partly genuine comfort.

Mostly to humor him, you pretended to give his question a bit of thought. “Probably crash and burn,” you said brightly, shedding your jeans in favor of the fuzziest pajama pants you owned. “There’s a slim possibility I’d succeed in anything at all, but again, those chances are  _ slim _ at best.” In your peripheral vision, you catch him shaking his head in admonishment, and turn just enough to give him a cheeky grin. “You can’t tell me I’m wrong, not if this is all hypothetical!” 

“Stay your blades, fair maiden, you wound me,” he deadpanned, and you couldn’t help a giggle. 

“I suppose I can, if only for the evening. C’mon, your toothbrush is in here.” 

Cleaning up before bed was a blessedly short affair, especially since your eyelids were starting to droop and you didn’t feel like elbowing Bucky away from the sink even as he attempted to win the territory of the entire bathroom counter. He didn’t seem up to it either, for which you were silently grateful and leaned your shoulder against him while you both brushed. 

Once you were tucked up in bed under several fluffy blankets, arms and legs both wrapped securely around Bucky’s torso and legs (respectively), you exhaled slowly, all of your muscles starting to relax one by one due to exhaustion and sheer proximity to Bucky. 

“G’night, Buck,” you mumbled sleepily against his shoulder. You could feel the vibrations from his chest as he responded, but you were too far gone to process the words. He didn’t seem to mind, and you drifted off almost immediately, without a single dream. Why  _ would _ you dream when Bucky was over? He was so much more complex than your subconscious could make him out to be, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

**Author's Note:**

> So touch starvation is a thing. I don't know how it is elsewhere in the world, but in America it's UNHEARD OF to hug, hold hands with, or just generally give or get physical comfort with someone you're A) not related to or B) not sleeping with. It's frustrating, because humans literally suffer when we don't get regular physical touch from someone we trust. Even just hugs, longer than the awkward pat-pat not-hug things, will release endorphins and make you feel better. I've been struggling with this lately, got frustrated, and I have a tendency to spite-write when that happens. 
> 
> Also I have an affinity for slice of life fics, which seem to accumulate hits a lot faster than the long-haul fics I have up. But hey, if you guys are enjoying them, that's all I'm after. :) 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I appreciate constructive criticism -- and of course, compliments. Any typos or errors you see, PLEASE point them out so I can fix them! Thanks, all!


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